Reborn With Wings
by Dancing Tiger
Summary: He woke up covered in cuts and burns, blood everywhere. His head pounded. His body ached. And he had no idea who he was or how he got there. Somehow, he knows he has to escape, and find who he is- or who he was. Will the reunion with his memory even occur, and if it does, will he find what he wants to hear? What happened to him? How did he get there? And most of all, who is he?
1. Good Morning

_The sound of a raging inferno crackled in the background, the snapping of fresh wood burning and sparks leaping into the air was a sound that shook him into consciousness. He opened his eyes in alarm, prepared to run from the threat of a fire, but the second he was able to see again, the sound disappeared. The first thing he was able to notice was the area that encompassed him, with no fire to be found. Trees surrounded him, thick pines and tall oaks, packed tight in a forest that could swallow a man if he wasn't careful. The air was thin, and the view was amazing when he swiveled his head ninety degrees. He was overlooking a valley with clumps of flowers and more trees on a landscape of green. He was high on a plateau, which was all he could gather of his surroundings at this point. It was amazing, the momentary bliss of nature and beauty. Within seconds, without any warning, things spun, the ground pitched beneath him. He lost control of his thoughts and his motions, a sudden lash of vertigo wracking his mind in pain._

_ When things straightened out, he was left gasping, looking down at a man who was lying face down in the thick dirt. The body was motionless. Things didn't make sense. He was on a plateau, he couldn't remember why, but he had a purpose, and so did the man. The man was in a uniform, he couldn't recall what branch of the armed forces it was, but that didn't matter. There was a large patch of red spreading through the cloth, the worst of the bloodstain in the man's abdomen. He was sure the man was dead, and it was to his surprise when the body gave a sharp cough, and seemed to shake. He took a step back, or at least tried, but was frozen in place. The shot man, whoever he was, seemed to be trying to roll over. With hands and fluid motions he were sure weren't his own, he reached down and did just as the shot man was attempting to. He looked down into a pale face with light blue eyes, what would have been a clean and pure face had it not been streaked in blood. Somehow, he knew that face. No name or event came to mind, but a warm feeling spread in him. A familiar face, but a dying one all the same. A bit dribbled from the corner of the man's mouth, and despite the brutal injuries, the man spoke. _

_"Go. Get out. You have to leave, now!" The man coughed sharply, and the last thing he caught sight of was the flashing of an insignia on a man's arm before everything spun out of control again, the harsh coughing echoing in his ears over and over as he spiraled into blackness…_

With a gasp, he jerked awake. His eyes opened, and rather than being blinded by the soft light of a warm bulb, he was plunged into a darkness nearly as pitch black as the one he had just escaped from within his head. An ache spread through his body almost as instant as his waking. Dull pain in his legs, to a sparking burn across his chest and neck. Slowly and surely, as his consciousness returned, sharp slicing pains with pins and needles worked its way into his arms and hands.

He was in a room with a cracked concrete floor coated in a layer of grime that was surely not just dirt. The entire place was filled with the overwhelming stench of human waste and blood. Swallowing was difficult for him, as his throat was dry as if he had poured sand down it, and tongue was the living equivalent of sandpaper. Somehow though, he summoned up enough spit to swallow and moisten his throat in the slightest.

His head was throbbing, and the pain coursing through his body pushed him so far that he saw white flecks dancing in front of his eyes, his body threatening to pass out again. But somehow, he pushed himself hard enough to be able to continue surveying his surroundings. The cinder block walls had blood streaking them, bloody handprints and sprays of the stuff everywhere. His head spun for a moment, and he put a hand up to it, instantly recoiling as he accidentally probed a lump towards the back that was the main cause of the throbbing.

_Damn… this is either the worst nightmare or worst hangover ever… _he thought bitterly, closing his eyes shut tightly, willing himself to wake up, snap back to reality. _Its inception, a dream within a dream. That memory, just another dream within this one. I'll wake up. I'll wake up. _Yet when he opened his eyes, the pain and hellish surroundings remained.

A groan snaked his way past his lips, and he laid his head back on the ground. He hadn't given much thought to himself at this point, only the place that surrounded him and the pain that wreaked havoc on his body. His upper body was propped against a bloodstained wall, and he wasn't clothed except for tattered cloths around his lower regions. Another realization suddenly bit into him and didn't let go- a foreign feeling that shook him to his core. He had no feeling of identity.

_Where am I? Where is this? Who am I? _Panicked, he though furiously for a name, a place, anything he remembered. But all that found its way into his memory was that half dream he had just awoken from. The young man stained with blood, dying, telling him to run, that strange insignia that floated in his mind. His childhood, to him he didn't have one. If he had friends, a life, a place before this hell, even his own age and name, it escaped him. His mind was a blank slate but for that one memory. Panic was easy, and he proceeded to do just that. His breaths grew quick, drawing a sharp pain in his chest. He searched for an answer once more, an answer to why he found himself covered in burns and cuts in scars, bruises that laced themselves around his body, cuts that carved marks and words into his skin. Why there was such a sharpness to his breaths, he raised a hand slowly and painfully to check, but cried out weakly as he looked down at his left arm. It was twisted at an odd angle, and a bump in the forearm indicated a dire break. Somehow though, something sparked in his mind that told him the source of the pain in his chest.

_Ribs. Broken. _That was a start. He tried to slow his breathing, to no avail. The sharpness of the pain egged him forward into more panic, and in a moment, he asked himself if things could get any worse. Of course, life decided to give him a cruel twist of fate. There were footsteps coming from somewhere, and then the clanking of metal. Voices, heavily accented. It took him a moment to identify, but it came rather quickly to the front of him mind.

_Russian. _Were they there to save him? Tell him why he was here? Why wasn't he in a hospital? No answers came to his mind, but a door was thrown open, flooding his current prison in dull light. A sharp voice chuckled, and then spoke loudly. Even though he could not put a name or a face to the voice, it sent fear and adrenaline sparking through his pain ridden body.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite time of day already. Are you ready for your turn with my knife today, Elliot Burke? Or was your new name yesterday Justin Kline? I can't remember. You give me a new one every day. But I'll break you." Despite the fact he was terrified, a few of the words brought things forth to his mind in a muddled mess.

_Elliot. I knew one. _

_Justin. I know that name. _

_Break. _A rough voice sprang to his mind. _"Everyone breaks eventually." _Someone had told him that at some point. But right now, the man approached him, and yanked him to his feet before he could react. He was dragged roughly across the ground by two other men, but couldn't fight back. He was too weak, in too much pain, and unable to resist.

Soon he found himself screaming in agony, a knife searing through his flesh, and questions hurled at him that he honestly didn't know the answer to.

**Please review! Merry Christmas to everyone! I promise that I will be a bit more active now that my life is settling down a bit!**


	2. Elliot Burke

After what could have been hours or days submitted to pain under the sharp steel blade, he was dragged back to his cell in a haze and thrown to the ground. Blood seeped from open cuts that decorated his shoulders and back, adding to the 'art' that had already been carved into the skin from previous days. He could hardly think as he licked blood from a split lip, savoring the liquid, despite the fact that it tasted of copper. He tried to ignore the fact that it was his own blood, however difficult it was with the slippery, bitter liquid sliding down his throat. His entire back stung and ached, his arm sending waves of pain through his body. The funny thing was, even though he was bleeding significantly, the cuts still didn't hurt the worst of everything. The pain that was the greatest wasn't even physical. The ache in his mind where his identity once had been throbbed with a vengeance.

He hadn't had a chance to think while being tortured, no thoughts aside from the pain. In fact, he had hardly heard the questions hurled at him throughout. Not a single question stuck in his mind, only one thing at all remaining in his memory from the entire session. The man, his tormentor, continued to call him by a name, amongst other foul language. 'Burke.' The last name he had mentioned earlier. Elliot Burke.

At that point, he had nothing else to go off. He didn't know who he was. All of his being ached to know what he had done to deserve such treatment, undergo such agony, all for the sake of some information. Maybe he was a spy, maybe he was a soldier. It had been too dark to assess his body at this point, but somewhere in his memory he had a vague idea of what he looked like. He was strong, tattoos covering his biceps. He had the strength to be a soldier, the build, the physique. But the identity was too nice to pass up. It was a right name in itself, so despite the fact when he tossed it around in his mind it didn't feel right, he decided to use it.

_My name is Elliot Burke _he thought with a wry smile on his face. Something to rejoice over. An identity, though maybe not his own. Sighing with great effort to his ribs, Elliot pulled himself weakly off the ground to the nearest wall, his limbs shaking with the effort, but when he got there, a feeling of accomplishment ran through his veins. He had done something. He had a name now, and had proved his strength. Elliot would have smiled, had it not caused so much effort to his aching jaw-They had slugged him there once or twice amidst the knife- but made sure to do so on the inside. He would need his strength if he was ever to escape.

_Escape. _The next thing that crossed his mind. Between a still pounding heart and the pain, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, savor whatever release it might give him. Elliot had no concept of time but for his heart, the only rhythm he had at the moment, however quick it might be. The torture might have ranged from mere minutes to hours, while his waking time before that had probably been only minutes of panic and confusion. He NEEDED to know who he was, and he needed to live. Despite not remembering a thing, he had the primal, animal instincts that was all that was left in a person once you stripped them of their identity. Elliot experienced that now. Whatever happened, he needed to live.

_How can I begin to escape if all I have is my bare hands and the strength that couldn't even amount up to enough to open a door? _He didn't know where he was. He didn't know who the people that were holding him were. He didn't know who he was, for God's sake. Yet there Elliot sat, trying to find a way out, anything, all while fighting the blackness that wanted to consume him. Eventually he managed to push himself up to a bit of a sturdier sitting position, aches and pains making him moan and groan. He couldn't fight the sounds. They came out of their own free will, but he didn't care. He was being treated like an animal, had no will to live but that of an animal, so why not sound like on?

Elliot grunted as he finally sat up completely, relying on the wall only slightly with his good arm. The left one sat useless and throbbing in his lap, and he winced when his knee accidentally jarred it when he tried to move again. With a growl of what could only be described as agony, the black closed in around his eyes, threatening to pull him under. But he fought and fought until he was panting with the effort to remain conscious. The only way he was making it out was if he could stay conscious.

Slowly, he surveyed the area in the dim light, catching everything that he could see. The space was small, but large enough for him to pace easily had he been able to walk at all. The small victory of knowing that he would be able to familiarize made Elliot feel victorious again. _Life's little victories, right? _All in all, it was about three and a half meters by three and a half meters. _Americans use feet. _That was the first thing that came to his mind when he registered the length and width. Another piece of his identity coming together. Not American, and surely not Russian. His skin was too light for regions like Africa as part of his heritage. _Something. I have something. _ With another piece of his identity together, Elliot moved back onto the cell around him. There was nothing in the room except for the dirt and the waste that he could see. There was nothing that he could explore. A hellhole of concrete and shit.

Still, Elliot made a vow that if he could gather enough strength, he would explore his cell. He would feel through every inch of grime and every crack on the wall, the seams around the iron door for anything that could help him escape. Surely, there was no way out from the inside. A weapon was what Elliot was looking for. Something sharp, a brick of cement, even a bit of rope could do the trick.

With another groan, both of frustration and pain, Elliot laid back against the wall, turning his check to the side, resting his sweat soaked brow against the cool cement. He didn't pay attention to the corner of the room that was just a little bit away from him, the corner that contained a crack in the wall a little more than half an inch thick, enough to see through if one tried.

But Elliot hadn't thought of checking the walls yet. His brain was once again taken over by pain and the beginning of a terrible fever. Little pants escaped his mouth, and his good hand clawed at the wall between his moans of pain. When Elliot finally stilled for the most part, his breaths still shallow, he heard a voice speak to him. It was tainted heavily with a thick Russian accent, and seemed to come from the wall.

"You were screaming good, little man. But don't worry. You have not much longer to wait. They come for me next." The shock of the voice pulled him from his stupor and made him jerk away from the wall, sending waves of pain through his body. He moaned in both pain and frustration. _Shit. Now I'm hearing voices. _

**Hope that appeases you :) Thanks so much for all the reviews! Much appreciated!**


	3. Little Man

Gritting his teeth, Elliot willed the voice to go away. But it kept talking to him. _I'm not going to answer that. No, I refuse to answer. It's just a voice in my head. Just a voice in my head. Fever. Pain. I'm sane, I'm not crazy. _But however many times he repeated the mantra in his head, it kept speaking to him.

"Only minutes now, I can hear them. They are gathering supplies. They do not suspect a thing. I will be there in minutes." Elliot tried to ignore the voice, but it was impossible. It kept speaking to him, low and reassuring. But in his few hours with his mind as blank as a newborns, right now all he could remember was that Russian was bad. Experiencing that firsthand had also been enough for Elliot to understand that plain and simple. There was a bit of silence in the voice though, and Elliot sank into the bliss of what he considered sanity. But that didn't last long. The voice came back.

"Seconds now. I have you out soon. I usually don't trust, you know. You are a lucky man." Squeezing his eyes shut, Elliot prayed for his sanity to whatever god could possibly hear him from where he was now. A metal door swung open but in the same amount of time it took him to prepare the panic inside him, he realized the sound was too muffled to be his own door. It was one maybe next to him, a cell next to his. That possibility came to him suddenly.

_Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe there are others!_ There was not much time for him to ponder this thought though, as a muffled war cry came from the other room, which he now guessed was through the wall he was leaning upon. There were yells, voices crying in all languages, Russian, French, and some English. It almost felt as if the English was for his benefit, but it didn't help much, as they were all colorful curses.

Within seconds there was the sound of bullets ricocheting off cement, and then suddenly it was still. Elliot hadn't jumped at the gunshots, which was almost a surprise for himself. _I'm not afraid of gunshots… so maybe I WAS a soldier. _But he didn't process that thought any longer. The door to his cell rattled and rattled, making Elliot push himself against the wall in fear. Someone had to have been struck down by those bullets. Now someone was coming for him. But he had already confirmed the thought- there was no escape.

The door swung open with a bang, and a large figure filled up the whole doorway, a gun in hand. With no other choice but to flinch away, Elliot shrunk down upon himself as much as he could with the severity of the pain. He braced himself for the gunshot that would end his life, closing his eyes, but peeked one open when a booming laugh filled the small space.

"Little man, I didn't know you would live up to your name! But that is for later. We leave now. Hurry." Stunned, Elliot choked a few words out in response. This man, obviously a Russian, a large one at that, was trying to help him?

"Who- who are you? What are y-you doing?" The laugh returned, but with a bit of darkness hidden in it.

"We do not have the day, little man. This is your last chance. Unless you are injured. Then I help you." Gulping with what little fluid was in his mouth, Elliot moaned when he tried to sit up more, tugging on his broken arm in the process. With a grunt the large Russian man moved further into the cell, and leaned down next to Elliot. It was only then he realized just how massive he was.

"You are injured… Badly, I see. I can only help you so much. You must try. You were strong when I spoke to you. We can get out now, together. Then I can help you. You help me, I help you." The man wasn't making sense to Elliot, especially in the haze that filled his mind. Elliot didn't know who he was, and how he knew him. But somehow, the Russian knew him. And for now it seemed he was friendly, willing to help him make an escape.

Swiftly, the massive man switched the gun quickly to his right hand, and pulled Elliot to his feet with an arm under both his arms as swift as one would pick up a feather. The pain and jarring movements made Elliot cry out, but he didn't have the strength to fight the man away. _But why would I want to fight him? He's helping me. For now, anyway. _His feet wobbled beneath him, his vision pitching him forward. The Russian kept him supported without effort, but barked out his discontent.

"If we are to move, you must use your strength! I can give you help, but I cannot walk for you. Come on, or I leave you!" Something in the dark voice told Elliot that this man was not lying in any sense of the word. That alone was motivation to get him moving, a bit of blood moving back into his legs from a body that barely had any of the life sustaining substance left in it. He would like to be a lot of places right now, and most of those constituted as any one that was away from this cell, out of this place. He took a shaking step forward, the man still supporting him.

"Good. Good. We work forward. Come on." Slowly, they worked their way to the door, Elliot knowing that his life and weight now rested on the rock hard arm of the Russian man with a gun. As they got outside of the cell, Elliot had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to adjust to the new bright light. Though as soon as he adjusted, his foot slipped in something wet and sticky. He looked down and found his foot in a puddle of blood leaking from the head of one of the terrible men that had fetched him a few hours ago. The eyes of his former tormentor were wide open, fixated on empty space, and empty of life. He was dead.

For some strange reason, Elliot did not balk from the scene. It did not strike disgust or contempt into the pit of his stomach. In fact, satisfaction boiled somewhere within, glad that an evil man such as that was gone to hell, to burn and rot for all of eternity. The vicious feelings surprised Elliot for a minute, but was snapped out of it as the Russian man spoke to him after leaning down to grab something. He thrust the cool material roughly into Elliot's good hand.

"Take this. We need to defend ourselves. Two guns are better than one. You say you don't remember who I am or why I am here. Well, pray to mother nature you remember how to use this gun." Looking down at it in brief surprise, within seconds something jumped in Elliot's mind. _MP5K. I know how to use this gun. _It surprised him at first, but his hand quickly molded to fit the gun, his finger resting just over the trigger. The feeling of the gun against him suddenly rushed back in a familiar flood. He remembered something. The Russian started to move again, dragging him forward down the long cement hall that stretched in front of them. Cries echoed from doors on each side of them, from banging on the wall to whimpers. More prisoners? Elliot started to drag his already slow and shaking steps, trying to see what it was, but he was quickly yanked forward again, a jolt of pain going through his body. The Russian spoke to him sternly, sharply.

"We cannot save them all. I chose to save you, because you help me. We might come back for them. We might not. They might live. Maybe. But we live. Come on. We go." Everything confused Elliot so much; he did simply as the man instructed him. His feet continued to wobble forward, slowly but surely. The hall was long, seemingly hundreds of meters long, when if probably only stretched about 200 meters in the direction they were going. Even so, it might as well have been forever. Slow, painful steps, painfully slow. Occasionally they had to stop for Elliot, allowing him to regain his strength and check his injuries every couple of meters. The Russian man was surprisingly patient, occasionally offering words of encouragement.

"Come on. Be strong."

"The Spetsnaz would like someone with your strength."

"Only a bit longer, little man." Though they did not exactly help to ease his confusion, Elliot trudged forward, his strength renewed by the strange man's confidence in him, aiming for the metal door at the end of the hall. And then they got there.

Ready to collapse, Elliot leaned up against the Russian once more as the massive man stuck a key in the door, and then muttered a few words in what had to have been Russian, before flipping to another key on the ring of them. It took about three tries before they struck one that worked, and the metal door clanged open.

Part of Elliot longed for there to be an expanse of the outdoors beyond, but there only laid another set of corridors. After only a moment of looking, the Russian seemed to know which way to go. They walked/shuffled over the cement, pain pricking every part of Elliot's body. He didn't know how much longer he could go on. Wincing, groaning, he kept pushing forward. Eventually they came close to a corner that they would have to turn. The Russian stopped abruptly, and quickly shushed Elliot with a hiss. The large man seemed to listen to something intently for a moment before whispering harshly in his ear.

"There are men around the corner. You must be ready. I think there are only five, but I cannot kill them myself. Two guns, better than one. You say go, we go. When you ready."

Though his eyes almost widened to the point of seeming to pop from his head, Elliot nodded minutely as not to disturb his still throbbing head. The Russian gave a curt nod in response to that, and Elliot drew in as deep a breath as he could without making a sound. He felt the gun in his hand, looked down to make sure it was loaded and ready to fire. Licking his lips once, with no result from the action, he whispered hoarsely.

"I'm ready."


	4. Getaway Vehicle

Swiftly, with a harsh jerk, the Russian tugged Elliot around the corner, both of them with their guns up. For a split second the pain was too violent for Elliot to do anything but cry out, but then his vision cleared from white sparks to assess the situation in front of him. There were only three men left standing, as the Russian had already taken care of two. It was instinct as he fired from the hip towards the men who were still too stunned to even pull their guns up to bear. Within another half a second they were down, bright red blood spilling from their bodies and settling in pools around them.

The recoil from the gun had been painful, even with his good arm, and Elliot was left gasping for breath as he was pulled forward into the same monotonous shuffle towards another door at the end of this new room. In truth, he wanted to pass out again, just stop the movement, and for a moment he was rewarded. The Russian eased him to the floor beside one of the bodies, and quickly set about to seemingly rough it up. Elliot's jaw dropped open to ask what he was doing, but it slowly became obvious as he continued to watch. The Russian was pulling all the clothing off the smallest man that he had shot, clean through the head, so the clothes had minimal bloodstains. It took mere moments, and then, slightly embarrassingly and painfully for Elliot, the Russian helped him yank on the pants and the shirt.

It took only a minute or slightly more, but it involved grunts and moans of pain, especially where the scarred and butchered torso-which still looked like raw meat at this point- was considered. His broken arm screamed with him when the shirt was pulled on, but in the end, he was clothed. The Russian surveyed his work with a quick nod.

"We find you shoes later. We can go now." And Elliot was hefted to his feet again. A door lay at the back of the large room, and they moved, painfully enough for Elliot, over the fifty meters or so. The Russian halted for a second, pulled on the door, and it swung open.

A blast of cool air hit Elliot, and he was exhausted and covered in filth and sweat, this air providing instant relief for his sweat soaked body. Then, Elliot was able to survey what lay beyond the door. It was a collection of Humvees and military transport vehicles, all painted different colors, all different sizes. Now he realized why the Russian had brought him here. Getaway vehicles.

He was unceremoniously herded over to one of the nearest vehicles, exactly which kind it was, Elliot didn't know. The Russian took him over to the passenger door, and swung it open. It was unlocked. It took a few awkward moments to get him in, but eventually through cries of pain and a bit more sweat, Elliot lay panting in the seat.

Another door opened, and the Russian climbed in the driver's side. With a flick of his wrist, the car roared to life, and Elliot heard him mutter something beneath his breath.

"Idiots left the key in. Shitheads." Another man's blunder had now allowed them to escape, and Elliot sent a silent prayer to God for that. With a few more grumbles the Russian man maneuvered the vehicle out of its tightly parked spot, and pulled out to what seemed like a ramp at the end of the makeshift garage. A bit of mellow sunlight flooded in through it, and it grew closer to them, the excitement and tension mounting in Elliot's heart. He would be getting out of this place soon. As the anticipation grew the closer they got, the Russian started talking again.

"There may be more men out there. Ready your gun- I'll be driving this shit." Of course, the words immediately snapped Elliot back into action, and he fumbled for the gun. _How I managed to hold on to this the entire time, I'll never know. _But he brought it up into his arms, checked the ammo that he had left- an adequate amount- and prepared himself mentally. _Okay, I pulled this off before. My muscles just kind of took control. Let's hope they do that again, because if not, and there are people out there, we are utterly screwed. _Swallowing, and drawing in a semi-deep breath to spare his ribs, Elliot was ready.

The vehicle moved forward slowly up the ramp, then suddenly picked up speed with a roar as the Russian man pressed his foot down firmly on the gas pedal. The vehicle jumped and bucked its way up the ramp, eventually thundering out into the outside.

Yells came from Elliot's right, and he immediately fired out the window, pumping the bullets into what seemed to be a group of armed men. They fell like toy soldiers in a row, only a few of them pulling up their guns before they were struck down. Elliot scoffed internally. _These bastards can't shoot for shit. _He had no idea where the thought came from, but it did, and felt familiar enough. More yells and a few bullets pinging off the vehicle came from behind. Twisting in his seat, Elliot fired behind them through the open top of the vehicle as it rushed forward, pulling him and the man with him out of harm's way.

Elliot dared look ahead for a brief moment despite the gunfire heavy on their tail, and he saw a chain link fence, what appeared to be doors chained shut made out of it, rapidly approaching. He didn't cry out, only wince as he was thrown against the seat as the car accelerated even further. It was two seconds that seemed like eternity before they slammed into them, throwing them open, and Elliot getting thrown slightly into the air, causing pain to shoot throughout his body.

The Russian let out a whoop of joy as they sped down a dirt road, leaving the cement building with people shooting at them far behind, farther by the second. Elliot on the other hand could only moan and pray that his eyes would remain open for a little bit longer. The gunshots slowly faded, and the building sank further into the horizon. Soon, after they mounted the crest of a small hill and disappeared behind it, leaving the building and the torture only a memory, Elliot let out a groan and rested against the uncomfortable seat, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Come on, don't pass out. That didn't really happen. It's still all a dream. Any second now I'll wake up in a hospital after a car crash or something. That explains it all! I'm having a wacky lucid dream in the hospital. I got in a car crash, got busted up pretty bad, which explains all the injuries, and now I'm in a medically induced coma! That makes sense. So I'm stuck with this shit until I wake up. Okay. Until I'm healed, that could take a few weeks, maybe a month. That would be probably about a day here, or two more days, so I just keep on doing what's logical and… _his thoughts were cut short when the Russian man snorted, and started up a broken conversation.

"You say you don't remember me. You don't remember anything. Well, little man, you shot like you remembered something. Now tell me- who are you?" Swallowing uncomfortably, Elliot answered as truthfully as he could.

"Well, um, I don't know. I woke up, in that place, and I had no memory… of anything. Who I am, what I am, you, or anybody else. Not my childhood, no friends, nothing." After another swallow, the Russian spoke again after a disgruntled sigh.

"You had best not be lying to me, little man. I trusted you, and I helped you out. I am still going to help you. Now, truth. Did you get hit in the head? Any electric shock administered?" Shrugging-rather painfully-was the only answer Elliot gave at first, but the throbbing in the back of his head that returned reminded him otherwise.

"My head." He muttered. Elliot was also sure that if he gave his body a good look, he would find places that did appear to have been electrocuted. With a free hand that wasn't on the wheel, the Russian man roughly yanked Elliot's head down, revealing the lump on the back of his head. The Russian moved his hand away, and Elliot was left moaning, painfully trying not to grab at his head and make the pain worse. With another grunt, the Russian man spat back his answer to the new evidence.

"I have seen this a few times before. A man can only take so much, and when he gets hit too hard, he can't remember. You say you cannot remember. You look to be truthful. So then I guess we proceed with introductions. You refused to give me a name, but I gave you mine. Sasha. Your turn, little man. I trust you, you trust me. Your name." Clearing his throat, Elliot gave the most honest answer. Now that he was in better light, and the mass panic was behind them, he got a good look at the man.

He was about six and a half feet tall, and built like a tank. He could probably snap your neck on accident, if he wasn't careful. His hair was cut short, and the only facial hair Sasha sported was the wisps of a goatee on his chin. At this point in time he didn't wear a shirt, and had on a pair of what Elliot guessed were pants stolen off a dead man. There was a tattoo on Sasha's shoulder, a soviet hammer and sickle with Russian lettering above them. Swallowing again, he responded.

"I am calling myself Elliot for now." Sasha nodded, thoughtfully staring ahead at the road which seemed to stretch on forever. After a few moments, the large man spoke.

"If you do not remember me, I will explain. I did not trust you at first. We were able to talk through the wall, a small crack in the back. We could see each other a little. We talked escape right away, after me explaining my name. I was too dangerous to have loose in the cell, they restrained me. I could have killed them, had I not been bound so heavily. You did not have any bonds, you said. They had taken them off long ago after many days of torture. I had heard your screaming for much of it. One day you found a thin bit of metal in your cell. You passed it to me, and I was able to pick the locks on my bonds, and untie the rest. I had only been through a few sessions- those bastards didn't remember they trained me to resist- and was still in good standing. We planned for me to help you escape. I owed you- when I owe a debt, I repay it. We would both be dead without your strength and bravery.

"So I waited for them. You stopped talking to me after a day ago. It surprised me, but now it makes sense. So I still owe you, little man. I am taking you to a friend of mine, an old friend, after I figure out where we are. She can help you. US Army Rangers, a good bunch of men and women… She's a medic, she'll help you. Okay?" Elliot nodded, biting down on his lower lip. The throbbing was getting worse, threatening to drag him under to unconsciousness or sleep, he couldn't tell which at this point. _So much for my 'this is a dream theory.' _He thought bitterly as he blinked furiously. Sasha laughed at that.

"No need to stay awake for my sake, little man. We have much driving to do. Shut your eyes. You'll need the energy to heal." Eager to listen this time, Elliot shut his eyes, and passed out within seconds to a dreamless, black ocean of sleep.

**Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews! More is always appreciated! Super thanks to my great beta, SMakarov, thank her for the beautiful polishing of this chapter! Have a great day to all, hope you enjoyed! :D**


	5. Wake Up Call

Once or twice Elliot was jerked awake from a dreamless sleep by the jolting of the vehicle against unpaved ground, but was quickly lulled back into the refreshing and revitalizing rest. Elliot was glad for the rest, but it ended far too soon when a hand on his shoulder shook him gently, and the deep Russian voice pulled him from the depths of his slumber.

"Come on little man, wake up. You have slept for long. We have work to do now. Come on." It was painful for Elliot to even open his eyes, much less be shaken awake, but after a few groans and moans he sat up. Things were blurry from the post-sleep confusion, but after a few blinks his vision returned, as did the pain throughout his body. It took effort to sit up, but Sasha was soon ready to help as the vehicle halted, and he got out. The door next to Elliot swung open, and Sasha helped him out, painful steps down to the ground.

In truth, Elliot could hardly stand now, even with the support. His body was growing weaker, and a wound must have become infected, because his body started to feel the effects of a violent fever. A cold sweat had broken out on his brow, and his body started having chills throughout it. He coughed a few times, trying to right something that he couldn't figure out was wrong. Sasha started to drag/pull him in the direction of what seemed to be a small building in just about the middle of nowhere. With a few weak groans, Elliot managed to drag his feet to what appeared to be the doorstep, and heard Sasha call out something in Russian through the door.

A few soft sounds came muffled through the door, before another Russian voice answered through the door. This went back and forth a few times before the faint sound of bolts being thrown inside, and then the wooden door creaked open. A few confused thoughts worked their way into Elliot's mind. _Locks on a wooden door? Why not just kick the shit in if you wanted to?..._ The voices continued as Elliot was dragged in and the door slammed shut behind them. Blinking a few more times, Elliot moved his head to survey the house.

It was a small, two room deal, with a main room and a side room, with a rest room, as far as he could tell in the few seconds he was inside. There were almost no furnishings or furniture, and there was only one window with heavy curtains covering it. Sasha started talking again, and Elliot finally had the sense to look around a bit more, and found that there were two more huge men standing there, next to the door, looking at him with harsh eyes.

They both looked like copies of Sasha, the same piercing gaze, rough voice, and build of their bodies. The one was slightly shorter than Sasha, with similar build and features, but he seemed a bit younger. The other one was even taller than Sasha, about 6' 9", and built like not just a tank, but an army backed up by a million tanks. While the younger one appeared unscarred, the larger one was covered in scars, his arms almost made of them. They looked at Elliot harshly, and the larger one barked a few words at Sasha with a frown of disgust on his face. Sasha replied, and Elliot wished that they would just hurry up and talk in English. His legs were beginning to waver and he was confused, especially with the fog of a fever clouding up his mind. Eventually after much discussion on the part of the Russians, Elliot moaned out a few words.

"Sasha, where the fuck are we, and who the fuck are they?" The large man looked down on him, and Sasha said a few more words in Russian before replying in English.

"This place is a safe house. You don't need to know where. These are some of my allies, old friends. They are Viktor and Sergei. We can get you help." Frustration pulled at Elliot's mind as he licked away some of the sweat on his upper lip, and chills began to creep into his body as he sagged farther into Sasha, his weight no longer supported. The largest man, Sergei, looked down on Elliot with more concern than distaste anymore.

"You do not look good…" Elliot swallowed, the chills in his body growing stronger by the minute. Sasha said a few more quick things in Russian and Sergei moved over, and proceeded to help Sasha with Elliot. Sasha spoke softly to Elliot as they moved.

"Little man, don't worry. You're safe here, among friends. We will be getting you to better help soon. Sergei can help you now." They moved into the side room, which had four cots in it. Sergei picked up Elliot like he was nothing and placed him on a cot. It hurt like hell and more to Elliot, but he didn't have a choice in the matter. His entire body was giving out, and the pain was making him give in. He closed his eyes and let out a low moan, the sounds of footsteps thudding on the floor wavering in and out. A voice reached to him through the falling black.

"Keep your eyes open! Come on! Just open them a little bit longer!" This was a deep voice, a new voice, and it was enough to have Elliot wince open his eyes once more. There was that giant, Sergei, standing over top of him. He was holding a large knife in his hands. The sight of the knife was definitely enough to pull Elliot out of the fog the fever was clouding his head with. He rasped a few words out in a panic.

"What-what are you doing? Sasha! Sasha!" He called the man he knew he could trust in hopes that he would be saved from the man with the knife. And sure enough, Sasha was there within seconds, but what Elliot saw didn't help much. In his hands Sasha held a strip of cloth and a bottle of liquor. _Oh shit… _

Elliot thought this as he threatened to go under again, with a set of chills making his body shudder, yet the adrenaline suddenly pounding in him allowed him to push himself up a bit, close to sitting up. Sasha used a large hand to firmly and painfully push him back down onto the cot, and held him down with one hand. Elliot struggled, but Sasha only pushed down more firmly, sending waves of pain shooting up from where the large Russian had his hand. Sergei leaned down with the knife, muttering a few words of reassurance as Elliot struggled and cursed.

"Shit, I'm not going to hurt you. Hold on a second." With that, Sergei grabbed the front of Elliot's 'borrowed' shirt, and in a single, precise stroke, ripped the shirt right down the center. With that Sergei set the knife aside, leaving Elliot a few more seconds of struggling to realize that Sergei indeed wasn't a homicidal maniac set out to slash him open. Or at least, not at this moment in time. Once the thought did run through Elliot's mind though, he laid back, panting, another chill going through him. While Sasha muttered a few Russian curses, Sergei looked Elliot in the eye with a firm glance. He spoke in a voice that equaled the strength in his eyes.

"I am not going to harm you. You are injured, and you need help now. We have a friend on the way, someone who can give you better help than we can. But you are going to die without immediate help, my friend. That is what I am going to do. I have only basic medical supplies, and I cannot guarantee this will be painless." Sasha grunted, and added in a few thoughts of his own.

"It will hurt very much, actually. But I'll hurt you more if you don't stop your squealing." The way that Sasha said it, Elliot didn't doubt a single word of the very sincere threat… Swallowing briefly, Elliot squeezed his eyes tightly shut, anticipating the pain that would be more severe what he was already suffering. It did not come right away, but the cloth that Sasha had been holding found its way towards his mouth.

"We don't need your screaming to give away the location of one of our last safe houses. Bite on this." Elliot did as asked, and then Sergei and Sasha set to their work.


	6. Angel

**I am so sorry that I haven't updated in next to forever. That's just life for ya! Thanks a BUNCH to anyone that has reviewed, favorited, and/or followed. You guys are the reason that I got my rear in gear to post this next chapter. I'm curious you guys, I've only heard guesses from a few of you- Who is 'Elliot?' Feel free to respond in a review! Thanks again and hope you enjoy!**

Having passed out somewhere into the first minutes of the dressing and cleansing of his wounds, Elliot floated for a few moments in a black space, but then got pulled into another memory. This one involved him standing in a brightly lit room, and standing next to a table that had two uniformed men sitting at it. It took a few minutes, or at least it seemed like it, for Elliot to realize just who he was looking at. It was himself, sitting next to the man he had seen earlier. _So I was a soldier. Maybe I still am a soldier, deep inside. But who is that other man? _It was so much easier to get a look at the man that he had seen dying, now that he was standing behind his own former self's shoulder. The basic features were the same- dusty blonde hair, ocean blue eyes that sparkled when the man laughed, but it was a boyish face that didn't belong on such a scarred and solid bodied man. They both seemed happier now that one of them wasn't dying. His former self and the man were chuckling as they both downed a shot, slamming the glasses back down on the table with roaring laughter.

"Wow! You actually got away with that!" The man exclaimed. Elliot couldn't help but smile as his former self responded, sounding rather smug and proud of himself.

"Of course I did, what else would you expect from me? We are the best of the best. Couldn't have made it without your help though." With a shy chuckle, the man turned his head away.

"Naw, you would've done just fine. After all…" Everything faded out then, with one thing catching in Elliot's eye before everything faded to black. The same insignia, a patch of sorts, on both of their shoulders. He blinked, and spun away to a different world.

This time, he was sitting down in a dark room with only a static glow as lighting. There was a grunt to his left, and Elliot turned to see someone that looked like himself sitting on the ragged, stained couch. His former self sat leaned back, only in a pair of briefs, eyes fixated on the screen of the old television. Elliot watched as the man he used to be brought a cigarette up to his mouth, inhaling deeply. It was with an odd fixation that Elliot watched the glowing tip of the tobacco filled death trap. His former self coughed violently after he brought the cigarette away from his mouth, and it took a few more moments and a large swallow from a bottle in his other hand. For a moment, Elliot was disgusted with himself. _I used to smoke? Shit, what have my lungs been through? Alcohol seems to be in my diet as well… How messed up was I? What's on the TV? _Thankfully, it was as if the memory was a lucid dream.

Elliot simply turned his head and looked at the TV, while listening in a bit, and was able to hear and see everything he had in what he now considered his "former life."

"The massacre death toll has still not been verified, and we continue to wish the best for families affected by this tragedy. Here is some footage from one of the security cameras…" The grainy image of what appeared to be an average airport, hundreds of people milling about. An elevator opened, and a few men walked out. For a few moments Elliot wondered what was wrong. Everything suddenly became clear though when the blurry flashes from the muzzle of a gun flared across the screen, and bodies started falling like dominoes across the heavily worn floor, blood spilling across the environment like water from a tap. In shock, Elliot reeled back, dizzy headed, into the couch.

That was a bunch of innocent men, women, and children! Gunned down for what purpose? _Why can't I even remember the world I live in? What kind of world do I live in? _His former self let out a yell of frustration, and Elliot flinched as he hurled the bottle that had been in his hand, and watched it shatter against the wall, glass flying up in a spray. Cursing vehemently, his former self hurled himself at the wall, drunk as a beast, slamming his fists into the wall until his knuckles bled. Elliot walked away slowly, willing himself to fade away back into the black of unconsciousness, not this memory, anywhere but here. He couldn't remember this for what it was, but the emotions of the triggering scene ran through his veins, heating his blood, making him want to be sick. But it was only the wisp of a memory, and Elliot wasn't actually there. He could feel the pain mounting in his stomach, though, and let out a scream, and fell back into a twisted, sick reality.

Blinking open his eyes with pain, Elliot felt few sensations other than a glaring light, and an immense, aching pain throughout his body. The brightness was blinding, and it took more than just a few seconds for a blurry shape above him to come into focus. First he saw only the hints of a face in his vision, then as it swam for a few seconds, he saw a bit more. It was a woman's face, and the first thing he thought about was beauty. Her hair fell in front of her face as she looked down at him with a worried expression creased on her lips.

_Wow, she's so beautiful…_That was the first thought to cross Elliot's mind as he gazed up at her with his senses and body starting to restart, preparing him to become more fully conscious. He saw dark hair pulled back, and a sweet face looking down at him with worry. For a few seconds he was able to smile groggily, thinking that this was still some memory, and maybe this woman was his wife… _Shit, then I'm a lucky man… _But as the spikes of pain returned to his body slowly, the aches and pain from his entire body starting to come around to him again. One more logical conclusion reached him, and though his body ached all over, even his jaw, he began to slur some words.

"I'm dead, aren't I? You're an angel, and I'm dead, and you're going to take me to wherever the dead people go. Shit. Will I get my memory back? You're so pretty… are you like, my angel now or something? Seriously? Did I know you or something? Or are you just a random angel sent to take me to heaven, or probably hell for me… I wouldn't be able to tell you, because I don't remember jack shit about my life. I don't know what I did. So, can you hurry it up? I'm sick of laying here." She continued to look at him, worry showing in her eyes, but a slight smile on her lips. He didn't care his body still hurt, he just wanted to start going, or doing whatever in his delusional mind he thought that dead people did. She only smiled lightly, making Elliot confused.

"Don't worry, you're not dead. You're safe though, and I'm going to make sure you stay that way." Through the confusion and pain that was already mounting again, Elliot was hardly able to hear her. So he just slurred out a few more words before someone else moved into his path of vision.

"Then who are you?" Before he could continue, a face that he had seen just before he passed out moved in next to the woman. _Sasha? Thought I ditched that guy… when I was alive. So I'm not dead. Shit. _A bit of disappointment ran through Elliot's veins briefly, but then a course of events ran through his head. Sasha had saved his life. Slowly, the events of the past day, or however long it had actually been, came back to Elliot. Groaning, he tried to put a hand to his head, but the woman pulled it down next to his side before he could move all that much.

"My name is Elena Sanchez. I'm-" Sasha cut her off and gently moved her aside and leaned directly over Elliot, his breath reeking of alcohol. Elliot would have pushed him away, had his whole body not ached, so he was forced to suffer the rank smell.

"Anything more than that doesn't matter. She's here to make sure you get better. She is an old friend of mine. We have been through a lot together. You were asleep for two days, little man. That is how long it took her to get here. She has been very worried for you. How are you feeling?" Groaning as Sasha pulled away, Elliot answered in blunt honesty.

"Like I got hit by a truck." The woman, Elena, laughed lightly and shoved Sasha out of the way gently. For a moment Elliot's eyes grew wide, remembering the tough man's demeanor. For a few seconds he was frightened for her, fearing Sasha would act out violently on her. But instead he only moved aside as she shoved him, and stood there without so much as a grumble.

Elena started talking again, but the pain started to spike in the back of Elliot's head as she did. He didn't catch any words other than "I'm here for you" before he slipped back into unconsciousness.


End file.
